


Don't Dream It's Over (Crowded House)

by Clitler



Series: Destiel Playlist [28]
Category: Supernatural, The Stand - Stephen King
Genre: 'The Stand' Crossover, Beer, Boys Kissing, Castiel Acts Like Endverse Castiel, Ex-Military Dean, Lonely Dean, M/M, Mechanic Dean Winchester, Mentions of Rape/Non-Con (Not Dean or Cas), Mentions of corpses, Mentions of isolation insanity, No Mother Abigail/Randall Flagg Dreams, Professor Castiel, Recreational Drug Use, Super Flu, Worried Big Brother Dean, handjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-06
Updated: 2018-01-06
Packaged: 2019-03-01 03:59:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13286526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Clitler/pseuds/Clitler
Summary: In the universe of 'The Stand', Dean Winchester treks from Kansas to California in search of his little brother.The dirty hippy he meets in Colorado may be his saving grace.





	Don't Dream It's Over (Crowded House)

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first real crossover attempt, so I thought I should use a verse I'm very familiar with.  
> I never liked the Mother Abigail/Randall Flagg aspect, though. And yes, I know that's where the title comes from.  
> So, this occurs in the universe of 'The Stand', but none of our SPN characters get the memo about God's little showdown.
> 
>  
> 
> Incidentally, the poem is 'The Hollow Men' by T S Elliot. It's my favorite.

Don’t Dream It’s Over (Crowded House)

_This is the way the world ends_

_This is the way the world ends_

_Not with a bang, but with a whimper_

            He can’t remember what poem that was from, something they’d had to read in high school, for sure.  Dean wasn’t really the poetry-reading type, so it must have been forcibly wedged in his brain by some well-meaning Lit teacher in his formative years.  For the last however many days, the words had become a cadence to accompany the beat of his boots on the cracked pavement or the overgrown lawns or the rutted gravel roads.  He’d added a little music to it and yesterday, he’d caught himself whistling along to the song playing in his head.  That had stopped him, right in the middle of the labyrinthine corridors of the Wyland Mall as he picked his way among the discarded jeans and busted fragments of the Sunglass Hut.  The funniest thing was, when he first realized he was hearing someone whistling, he’d thought it was another person.  He’d grappled frantically for his rifle, checking the chamber and swinging it up in a big arc, putting a wall to his back instinctively.  Of course, there was no one and it took him a full minute to recognize that it’d been him whistling.  Well, it was funny afterward.

 

            A lot of this creeping insanity could have been avoided, if he’d been able to take Baby instead of walking the whole way.  But not too far outside of Lawrence, he’d come upon a tangled knot of dead cars strewn for miles up and down the highway.  The fields to the right of the road were inaccessible due to the deep ditch running along the highway, so he’d skipped over to the median, cruising along at a blistering 20 miles an hour, the fastest he was willing to risk, until he came up to the shattered remnants of an overturned Krispy Kreme truck.  He’d started to turn Baby around, intent on going back to town and snagging Bobby’s tow truck to move the wreck, but he’d gotten out of the Impala and walked through the drift of withered donuts to check out the other side.  His heart fell when he saw three more clusters of stalled and/or mashed up cars and trucks across the median.  He’d sat in Baby for a full hour, alternating between crying jags and screaming fits, slamming his head on the steering wheel and petting the dash in apology.  Finally, he’d turned her around and driven back to Lawrence, parking his beloved vehicle in Bobby’s garage and covered her with a tarp.  He’d spent the rest of that day preparing the tow truck, mounting Garth’s old dirt bike behind the hook and strapping it down tight.  He added as many gas cans as Bobby owned.  The pump in the yard ran off of Bobby’s generator but he had no idea how to get gasoline on the road with the power out. 

 

            As ready as he could be, Dean set out the next morning.  That was two weeks ago, and he’d come pretty far before he ran out of gas for the truck.  The dirt bike was a bad idea.  A cat, of all fucking things, had darted out in front of him and Dean’s instincts had taken over, laying the bike down and skidding a handful of yards, ruining his favorite jeans but thank God, he hadn’t gotten more than a few scratches.  Luckily, he’d already slowed down to weave around some cars right in the middle of a downtown street, otherwise, he could be dead by now.  The thought of dying in the middle of downtown Wallace, Kansas because of a goddamned cat (or worse, slowly dying of thirst and exposure with a broken back) filled him with a cold dread that made slick sweat break out on his upper lip and loosened his bowels.  The worst part of that scenario, the thought that woke him at random in the middle of the night, was ‘I’d never know what happened to Sammy’.  The idea that he could die before finding his little brother was enough to make him ditch the dirt bike and continue the long journey to California on foot.  Guns were easy to find, ammo, too.  Food was everywhere, if you didn’t mind the occasional desiccated clerk corpse giving you the hairy eyeball as you stuffed cans into your ragged back pack.  Adequately speedy ambulance service, though?  Not so much, not anymore.

 

            The last thing he expected as he hoofed it into Colorado was the sound of an acoustic guitar carrying over the still August air.  It had been a month, at least, since he’d encountered another living soul, so he figured he could be forgiven for initially mistaking the music for something playing in his own head.  He immediately recognized the tune as an old 80s song, but he couldn’t recall the lyrics.  A deep, gravelly voice supplied them helpfully.

 

            “ _There is freedom within.  There is freedom without_ ,” the voice sang.  It was still a bit far away, but close enough Dean could make out the words over the sound of the guitar strumming.  “ _Try to catch the deluge in a paper cup_.”  Dean stepped onto the grassy verge and slowed down, eyes scanning ahead for the source of the music.  He held the semi-automatic rifle he’d picked up back in Kansas at the ready, but pointed down, safety off.  He was trying to be cautious, but honestly, the sound of another living person was bringing tears to his eyes as he choked back a sob of relief.  If someone else had survived the Fever that had burned the world down, there was more hope for Sammy.  Until this point, the only way Dean had kept going was convincing himself that his immunity had to have a genetic basis and Sam, as his only living blood relative, had to be immune, too.

 

            The next lines were a little louder, “ _Hey now, heeeey now! Don’t dream it’s oooover!_ ”  This guy was definitely taking artistic license now, “ _Hey now, heeeey now! When the world comes in, they come, they coooome to build a wall between us!!! You know theeeeey won’t win!_ ”  By the time Dean finally spotted him, the dude was screaming the lyrics into a fallow field on the side of the highway.  He was sitting on the roof of a Lincoln Continental so old its original golden paint job had faded to a puke yellow.  He was facing three-quarters away from Dean.  As he slowly approached, he could see the only thing the guy was wearing was the guitar, his back drenched in sweat that trailed down his spine to collect in his crack where his ass was squished against the leather roof of the Lincoln.  Great, Dean thought, the only other living person for hundreds of miles is a naked, tone-deaf hippy. 

 

            “ _There’s a battle ahead, many bat-tles are lost…but you’ll never see the end of the road while you’re travellin’ with meeee,_ ” the hippy continued, quieter this time.  Even though Dean was only a car-length away now, the man hadn’t seemed to notice him, so, he waited for a break in the lyrics.

 

            Dean lifted his hand in a little wave, leaning over to his left to catch the hippy’s eye, “He-ey there,” he choked out.  Jesus, how long since he had last spoken out loud, barring grumbling to himself?  Since Jo died, had to be.  Dean cleared his throat and tried again, “Hey buddy, how ya doin’?”

 

            The hippy’s strumming trailed off and he ever-so-slowly turned his head toward Dean, startled blue eyes wide in his scruffy face.  His wild beard split in a manic grin as the man shuffled around to face Dean, keeping his legs crossed and the guitar in his lap the whole time, thank God.  He strummed the guitar with a dashing flourish and launched back into song, “ _They come! They come! To build a wall betweeeeeen us! We know theeeey won’t win!_ ”  Dean flinched back a bit in surprise.  Surprise quickly morphed into anger, like most strong emotions did nowadays.

 

            “Hey!” Dean yelled.  The man stopped singing, his fingers stilling on the guitar strings.  He tipped his head, considering Dean. 

 

            “Alright, not a Crowded House fan,” the man sighed, looking down at his guitar, “but I only know a few more, mostly classic rock.  Do you want to hear ‘Dream On’ again?  You guys always like that one.”

 

            “What? What do ya mean ‘again’?  And who’s ‘you guys’?” Dean asked, checking the safety on his gun and raising it a bit.  His eyes searched around without turning away from the hippy dude.

 

            “Your ghost pals,” the man answered simply.

 

            “What?!  What the Hell are you talkin’ about, man?  I don’t have any ‘ghost pals’!” Dean sputtered, lowering the gun again but not putting the safety back on.  This guy was clearly insane and therefore not to be trusted.

 

            The man was silent for a moment, just staring at Dean, his face cycling through emotions quicker than Dean could assess, especially seeing as how he’d just met the man.  “You…you’re alive?” the man asked quietly.  “You’re really real?”  He flung the guitar aside and started to scramble off the car.

 

            “Whoa!” Dean threw his hand up to block his eyes, “Yes, I’m very fucking real!  And so is this gun, so stay where you are!” he hissed.

 

            “I won’t hurt you,” the guy chuckled, Jesus cruisers dangling over the driver’s side rear door.  “I’ve never hurt anyone in my life.  Maybe that’s why I lived, some kind of passivity gene that was left out of the target group?  But then again, that doesn’t explain _everyone_ who survived…” he mused, his head doing that tilty thing again.

 

            Dean relaxed a bit more, crazy but not dangerous.  Besides, the dude was naked except for his sandals.  Dean was confident enough in his fighting abilities to know he could take down one naked hippy.  The dude obviously hadn’t made any effort to wash himself or cut his hair since the end, probably too busy getting high to care.  Someone like that was definitely not a threat to Dean, with his military training and his rifle.

 

            Dean thumbed the safety on and let the rifle dangle from its strap, “What do you mean ‘target group’?”

 

            “Well,” the man slid down to the pavement with a squeak of flesh on leather that sounded painful and, judging from the wince that flashed across his dirty face, it was, “you don’t think this was a natural event, do you?  Viruses of this type are unerringly manmade. Nothing in Nature kills with such a high percentage rate.  It’s just unheard of.  And since it’s clearly manmade, it must have had a purpose.  Most likely it was weaponized influenza, maybe with a dash of bubonic plague, just for shits and giggles.  Although, some of my peers have been known to tinker for the sake of tinkering, this doesn’t seem like that.  This seems like someone had a very specific agenda.”

 

            Dean was stunned by the speech.  He stood immobile as the guy approached him, letting the sound of another person’s voice wash over him, sloughing away all the days of crushing loneliness.  Just by virtue of its novelty, it was the most appealing voice Dean could remember.  The man stopped less than six inches from Dean and gazed into his eyes with an intensity Dean was not prepared for, not after weeks of nothing but his memories for company.

 

            “Uh, dude, personal space,” Dean muttered, his nose wrinkling at the sour smell of a long-unwashed body.

 

            “My apologies,” the man said, taking a step back, “I am afraid my recent bout of solitude has left me bereft of the few social cues at which I was previously adept.  My ‘people skills are ‘rusty’.”

 

            “You talk like a robot, dude,” Dean grumbled, still trying to avert his eyes from anything below the guy’s waist, “kinda surprising coming from a hippy.”

 

            The hippy robot threw his head back and laughed hard, tapering off to a soft, breathy chuckle as he stuck his hand out, “Dr. Castiel Novak, professor of Theoretical Biochemistry, formerly of Eads, although I do not believe anyone will be attending class this fall, so I suppose I am currently without a job.”  Castiel shook his head disparagingly, “Such a shame, too.  I was this close to tenure.”  The doctor laughed at his own joke, but Dean could hear a note of strain laced through the good humor.

 

            Dean shook the hi-no, _Castiel’s_ hand absentmindedly, almost hypnotized by his melodic rambling.  He really did have a nice voice, rough and deep but soothing, like a late-night radio DJ.  “Uh, Dean…Winchester, professional grease monkey, formerly of the U.S. Marine corps,” he stammered, half-smile quirking his lips at the touch of Castiel’s hand.  It was soft and warm but firm.  It was also the first physical contact Dean had felt in a month and it was _glorious_.  “Uh, Doctor Castiel Novak, that’s, uh, kind of a mouthful,” Dean might have imagined the flicker of mischief in those blue eyes, “Mind if I call you Doc?”

 

            “Indeed, I do,” Castiel smiled as he turned and walked back to the Lincoln, ducking in the open driver’s window and coming out with what looked like a skirt, “It makes you sound like a cartoon rabbit,” he said, grinning as he pulled pants on.  They were some kind of tie-dyed, billowy material that only reached halfway down his calves.

 

            Dean smiled back at him, more relaxed now that Castiel’s junk was covered up, “How ‘bout Cas, then?”

 

            “That is acceptable,” Cas agreed, opening the Lincoln’s trunk with a set of keys that must have been in the pants.  He pulled a huge hiker’s backpack out, settling it on his broad shoulders with the ease of familiarity.

 

            “This your car?” Dean asked, surprised.  The thing looked like it belonged to a down-on-his-luck pimp.

 

            “It is.  Or rather, was.  I believe it has finally ‘shuffled off this mortal coil’.”  Air quotes again, Jesus, this guy was one weird duck.  “I think something vital fell out,” Castiel pointed behind Dean.  Dean looked and, sure enough, the thing’s water pump was lying in the middle of the road about 20 feet back.

 

            “Uh, yeah, kinda need a water pump,” Dean chuckled.

 

            “Is that what it is?” Cas asked as he strode past Dean, heading back the way he’d come, toward the next town.

 

            “Hey, where you goin’?” Dean scrambled to keep up.

 

            Cas shrugged nonchalantly, “West, I suppose.”

 

            “Well, where were you going when your water pump fell off?” Dean asked.

 

            “East,” Cas answered, “I was praying for a sign when you showed up.   I didn’t pray before I left my house, and this is what happened,” he nudged the defunct water pump with one sandaled foot as they walked past.

 

            “Wait, _that_ was praying?  You pray by singing cheesy 80s music?  Badly, I might add.  And loudly.  And why West now?”

 

            “Yes, that’s how I pray.  Prayer is not the words you speak, it’s the _intent_ and that comes from here,” Cas pointed at his chest, “not here,” then his temple, “And I’m heading West because that is where _you_ are headed.”

 

            “So, I was your sign?  I’m not…but…that’s ridiculous!”

 

            “Was my singing really bad?”

 

            “What? Yes, er, no, I guess…it was okay.  Your guitar skills are better, though.”

 

            “Can you sing? Maybe you can teach me to sing and I can teach you to play the guitar.  Why are you going West? Where did you start out from? Have you seen anyone else?”

 

            “Woah, slow down! Jesus, you ask a lot of questions, don’t ya?”

 

            “You asked me a series of questions.  I was just reciprocating. Will you not answer?”

 

            “Um, well, yes, I can sing.  Mostly just karaoke, but I have a few fans… _had_ a few fans.  I, um, guess I can teach you?  Never tried to teach anyone to sing, so no guarantees, okay?” Cas nodded his head seriously.  “And I’m going to California, so, yeah, West.  I started out in Lawrence, Kansas, about two weeks ago.”

 

            “You must walk exceedingly fast!”

 

            “You know where Lawrence is?” Cas nodded again. “Well, I had a tow truck and then a dirt bike, for most of the way, but I ran out of ways to fill the truck’s gas tank and the dirt bike was too dangerous, so, ya know…” Dean tried to hide the shiver that ran through him at the memory of his wipe out in Wallace.

 

            “What about other people?”

 

            “Nope, not a soul.  Except this one dirty, naked hippy I ran into in Colorado,” Dean smiled down at Cas.  Cas grinned gummily back at him, his teeth a shocking shade of white in his dark beard.  “How about you, you seen anyone else?”

 

            “A few,” he answered grimly, his brows drawing together, “There was a caravan, of sorts, that moved through town three days ago.  There was a tow truck with a cow-catcher attached, an RV, and four men on motorcycles.  I snuck into town on foot and saw them having some kind of party outside the RV, in front of the courthouse.  There were several women with them, but I don’t think…” Cas gulped, “I don’t believe the women were with them, um voluntarily?  They didn’t seem like the kind of people one would want to come across alone and defenseless, so I hid in my bedroom and waited for them to pass through.”  Cas’ voice shook slightly with remembered fear and his eyes darted between Dean and the road almost frantically.  “I know…I know I should have tried to…do something, um, for the women, but I…I haven’t ever even _held_ a gun, not in my whole life and I-“

 

            “Cas,” Dean stopped the slightly shorter man with a hand on his shoulder, “calm down.  I’m not judgin’ you for not getting’ yourself killed.” Cas’ posture slumped in relief and he turned wide, wet eyes up to Dean, “Sounds like there were way too many for you to handle.  The best you could have hoped for was death.  It could have been a lot worse.”  Dean thought about some of the things he’d seen during his last tour of duty, “ _A lot_ worse.”

 

            “Yes, well,” Cas cleared his throat and if his eyes were a still watery, Dean was a big enough man to chalk that up to the glare of the setting sun.

 

            The sun was setting, shit.  “Hey, uh, Cas, can we make it to town before dark?”  Dean asked nervously.  Since everything fell apart, the nights were unbelievably dark.  Dean had grown up in a good-sized city and the lack of reflected glow from the clouds above had been unnerving, to say the least.  Even in the vast deserts of the Middle East, the sand had its own unearthly night time luminescence.  This utter darkness, the kind even a high-powered flashlight couldn’t penetrate very far, forced Dean to acknowledge that primal part of himself that cowered in terror from the deep night.

 

            Cas must have felt the same way. He glanced into the West and shook his head, “No, we won’t.”  He looked North and South along the highway.  “There,” he pointed Southwest, “is that a house?”  Dean squinted in the direction Cas indicated and caught a glimpse of a farmhouse through the swaying trees. 

 

            “Yeah, yeah, Cas, let’s go.”  The two headed off toward the dirt drive leading to the farm, it’s winding length lined with the same trees that surrounded the house and barn.  The wind was picking up and the fading sunlight shifted through the trees to dapple the gravel in a fluctuating mosaic, making Dean remember walks he’d taken with Lisa Braeden when they were dating back in high school.  God, he felt about a million miles away from his carefree, teenage self.

 

            Dean hoisted his gun as they approached the house, shouldering it as Cas went up the stairs and knocked on the door.  “I don’t think pointing a gun at the homeowner is conducive to an unfettered invitation, Dean,” Cas admonished.

 

            “Rape caravan, Cas,” Dean gritted out through clenched teeth, alert to any sounds or movement that wasn’t the gentle susurration of the wind through the leaves overhead.

 

            “Yes, well,” Cas opened the front door and stepped back to let Dean enter first, gun held at the ready.  Dean performed a sweep of the big front room and the attached dining room, moving quickly through the kitchen and dining room, even checking the bathroom and mud room beside the laundry room.  Once the first floor was clear, Dean called for Cas to join him.

 

            “I’m gonna check the second floor.  Be ready to run if I holler, okay?” Cas nodded, face solemn, probably thinking about what Dean had meant by something ‘a lot worse’ than death.

 

            Dean mounted the stairs, keeping to the rail to avoid any squeaky spots and to see up to the next floor.  Three bedrooms and two bathrooms, what looked like a home office with an old-fashioned typewriter on a big oak desk, but no people and no corpses.  Wherever these farmers had went to die, it hadn’t been at home.  Dean silently thanked his lucky stars and headed back down to give Cas the good news.  He wasn’t at the bottom of the stairs where Dean had left him.  He wasn’t in the kitchen or dining room, either, or the laundry or mud room or bathroom and Dean started to panic a little, images of burly men on motorcycles making off with his last tether to sanity flashing through his head.

 

            The banging of the kitchen’s screen door had Dean jerking the gun back up and spinning around as Cas walked calmly through the kitchen entryway.  “Fuck! _Cas_!” Dean exhaled explosively, “You scared the _fuck_ outta me!!! Where the Hell were you?!”

 

            “There’s a working pump in the back yard,” he explained, holding up a glass of water.  “It’s good. This one is for you,” he offered the glass to Dean.

 

            “Thanks,” he said sarcastically, scowling at Cas as he chugged the cold, clear water.  “Fucking…don’t _ever_ fucking disappear like that!”  Dean pointed the nearly-empty glass at Cas, who looked bemused at Dean’s outrage, “I thought…” here, he trailed off, hastily finishing off the water to avoid voicing his fears.  They’d only just met, and Dean was already attached to the strange, stinky man with the incredible eyes.  Obviously, he couldn’t let on the degree to which he relied on Cas’ company this early in the game.

 

            Cas’ little smile told Dean he knew _exactly_ what the taller man was trying to hide, “Yes, well.”  Cas took the empty glass from Dean’s hands, letting his elegant fingers linger just a shade too long as they brushed across Dean’s, and turned to put it back in the kitchen, “Maybe I can finally take a proper bath,” he tossed over his shoulder, “Maybe you can sleep in a bed tonight.”

 

            Dean tried very hard not to imagine washing Cas’ back as they lounged skin-to-skin in the big, claw-foot tub upstairs or curling up to the heat of another body in a soft bed.  He failed miserably.  “I’ll, uh, I’ll find some buckets,” he blurted out as he hustled through to the mud room.

 

            Between the house and the barn, they found six usable, metal buckets, enough to make heating the water on the stove and lugging it upstairs to fill the tub easier than Dean had anticipated.  The groan Dean heard all the way downstairs was worth it, though.  Dean smiled to himself as he washed up in the downstairs bathroom with a single bucket of warm water, luxury enough for him after this day of bounty.  Meeting Cas, finding an unoccupied house with a working pump _and_ a fully stocked dry pantry, plus the prospect of sleeping in a real mattress under an actual roof, (especially one that didn’t still skeeve him out after hauling away the corpses of the previous occupants)?  Everything was coming up Milhouse today and he didn’t want to tempt fate by wishing for more. 

 

            While he waited for Cas to perform what must be the most epic scrubbing of all time, Dean decided to show off his newfound culinary skills to his new friend.  With a working stove, he could combine his previous Kraft Mac & Cheese artistry with his apocalypse-gained knowledge of canned goods into one magnificent masterpiece of a feast.  By the time he heard Cas coming down the stairs, Dean was just sitting down at the little table that was set against the wall of the kitchen.  He’d thought the five dishes he’d prepared would look like more on a smaller table.  Plus, the thought of sitting in the formal dining room while they chowed down on tinned-beef stroganoff was just too weird.  When Cas finally appeared in the doorway, Dean’s mind blanked at the sight before him, all thoughts of bragging over his food forgotten.

 

            Dean had scrounged up several fat pillar candles and even one 12-taper monstrosity from throughout the house, so he had plenty of light to illuminate the change in his new friend.  Gone was the homeless-guy beard, only a shadow of dark stubble remained to highlight Cas’ square jaw.  The dirt rings around his neck and hairline were also gone and his black hair shone glossy in the flickering candle light as it stuck up at weird angles, like someone had been gripping it in the throes of passion for hours.  Dean swallowed audibly as his eyes moved down from Cas’ face.  He’d pulled on an old TOOL concert tee and replaced the Woodstock pants with a pair of faded jeans which hugged his thick thighs and rode low enough on his hips Dean caught a glimpse skin dusted with curly dark hair below his belly button.  Dean had to adjust himself under the table as Cas spread his arms, inviting Dean’s comments on his make-over.

 

            “Well?  What do you think?” Cas smiled tensely.

 

            “I, uh,” Dean blew out a calming breath as he closed his eyes briefly for a long blink, “hardly recognize you.  Amazing what a little hot water can do, huh?” he chuckled nervously.

 

            “I found a whole pack of razors under the sink upstairs, so I just went to town!” Cas explained, and Dean did his very best not to imagine what else Cas may have shaved while he was up there.  Cas came the rest of the way into the kitchen and up to the table, “Wow, Dean!  This all looks amazing!”

 

            “Sit, sit,” Dean stood halfway up and indicated the chair across from his, “please.”  Once Cas was settled and Dean confirmed the other man did, indeed, want a beer, he went about explaining every dish as Cas popped the cap off and took a swig of the warm, slightly skunky brew Dean had found a case of in the basement, “This is beef stroganoff with egg noodles.  Um, black bean burgers with cheddar cheese and baked home fries.  Tuna casserole over here and for desert,” Dean lifted the lid on the cast iron skillet dramatically, “the piece of resistance!  Peach cobbler, voila!”

 

            What could only be described as a giggle bubbled up from Cas as he clapped his hands like a child.  “Oh, Dean, I…I just can’t believe…well, there aren’t words to describe…”  Cas grabbed Dean’s left hand where it rested on the table and he almost dropped the heavy iron lid in his right hand, “This is a true miracle!  You are a blessing!  Thank you, so much!”

 

            Dean blushed heavily from the effusive praise, totally not from Cas’ warm hand blanketing his own, “It’s not that big a deal, Cas, jeeze,” Dean set the lid half on the skillet and reluctantly took his left hand back, “Let’s, um, let’s just eat, it’s getting late.”

 

            Both took inadvisably large portions of each dish, Cas asking a million questions about each one the whole time.  Despite Dean’s best efforts, Cas’ enthusiasm was contagious and by the time he dug into the stroganoff (meat first, even if it came out of a can, because Dean Winchester was a carnivore at heart), he couldn’t stop smiling, pride at being able to feed Cas such an extravagant meal filling his chest fit to bursting.  Cas’ pornographic moan of pleasure halted Dean’s fork on its way from plate to mouth.  Dean goggled at Cas as he groaned around a mouthful of the burger and Dean’s stroganoff fell back on the plate with a wet thwop. 

 

            Cas looked up and caught Dean staring but he just couldn’t look away.  He smiled even as he continued to chew, slurring out, “Thish makesh me _vewy_ happy!”

 

            “Yeah, I guess so,” Dean mumbled, trying to unobtrusively make some room for his traitorous cock, which thought a great way to impress Cas would be a standing ovation.  Cas groaned again as he took another bite before he’d even finished chewing the first.  Dean’s face felt like it was on fire, “You two need a minute alone?” he grouched.

 

            Cas chuckled and took a long pull on his beer.  Dean only watched the way his Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat to make sure he didn’t choke.  “Ah, whew!  I don’t know how you did it, but this tastes _exactly_ like a cheeseburger from my favorite diner!”

 

            “Well, you haven’t had a cheeseburger in at least a month, so, you’re probably not the best judge right now,” Dean teased.  Deflection was an artform in the Winchester household.

 

            “Whatever you say, Dean.  If you keep this up, I may have to marry you,” and the bastard _winked_.  Dean choked on his bite of tuna casserole and would have to watch for signs of aspiration pneumonia for the next week, but Cas’ full-body laugh was worth it. 

 

            When he was down to random coughing, Dean groused, “Better stop talking with your mouth full, it’s bad manners and I refuse to marry an ill-mannered man.” Now it was Dean’s turn to wink but instead of choking, Cas’ mouth spread in a lecherous grin that had Dean’s dick trying to pound its way out of its denim prison.

 

            The rest of the meal was accompanied only by the scraping of forks on plates and some mild cooing on Cas’ part over the peach cobbler.  Finally, Cas sat back in his chair and sighed as he tugged at the waistband of his jeans, “If I had underwear on, I’d take these jeans off right here in this kitchen.”

 

            Luckily for Dean, he, too, was done eating and had just swallowed the last of his second beer _and_ was able to successfully suppress the squawk that tried to escape his mouth.  “Well, um, okay then, uh…”

 

            Cas slipped two fingers into the front pocket of his jeans and pulled out a fat joint, smiling at Dean from under his eyebrows, “Shall we?”

 

            Dean hadn’t smoked pot since high school, when his father had caught him and Benny smoking up behind the garage.  John had sent Benny home with a promise not to tell his mom if Benny never smoked again.  Dean had gotten a three-hour lecture on the evils of dope, which included chronic laziness, insatiable eating habits which would ruin his wrestling weight, and sexual disfunction.  He was sure that last one was false because he and Benny had been getting high and trading sloppy blow jobs for three months now.  At least after getting caught tokin’ up, the blow jobs got a lot less sloppy.

 

            Dean grinned at Cas, “I knew it, you dirty hippy!”

 

            Cas laughed and dragged him out the back door, plopping onto the porch swing with a happy sigh.  Dean sat next to him, close enough to feel the heat radiating off him but not close enough to touch.  Cas lit the spliff and took the first deep drag, passing the joint to Dean while holding onto the smoke. “Sinner,” Dean lisped in his best Church Lady voice and _that_ finally got Cas to choke.  Dean chuckled and took his turn.  They passed the weed back and forth in an easy silence until Cas bemoaned the loss of his favorite roach clip and flipped the butt over the porch railing.  Dean went back inside for a couple more beers and they spent the next twenty minutes rocking gently in the swing and nursing their well-earned brews. 

 

            “So, why California?” Cas asked, finally breaking the quiet.

 

            “My little brother,” Dean answered softly, “He’s a lawyer in Sacramento.”

 

            “Damn.”  It was only the second curse word Dean had heard out of the man and it made him smile sadly into the gloom of the back yard for some reason.

 

            “Yeah, he, uh, met his wife, Jessica, while he was at Stanford and her folks are from Sacramento, so they moved there after graduation.  Anyway, I’m gonna find him.  I need to find him,” Dean laughed mirthlessly, “Damn kid’s totally helpless, probably been hiding in his house since this…whole thing started.  He’s gonna need me.”  Said ‘kid’ was pushing thirty and hadn’t needed Dean for anything since he’d asked his older brother what ‘third base’ meant when he was 13, but Cas didn’t need to know that.

 

            Cas’ warm hand slipped into Dean’s where it rested on his knee and they laced their fingers together automatically.  Dean was glad it was too dark for Cas to see the tear that squeezed out of Dean’s eye at the contact.  He couldn’t even begin to say how amazing it was to talk to another person, to feel the warmth of another living being pressed against his skin, even the innocent touch of Cas’ hand in his, it was enough to make him weep. 

 

            “You’ll find him,” Cas assured him quietly, firmly, like it was inevitable.  Weeks of talking himself into the idea that Sammy was somehow alive, that their shared genetics meant a shared immunity, hadn’t done anything to thaw the icy dread deep within Dean’s heart that his little brother was gone from the face of the Earth forever.  But Cas’ gentle words sparked a little flame inside, something that called to Dean’s last shred of hope and lit it up with long-lost heat and light.

 

            Dean took a minute to swallow around the lump in his throat, “Yeah, I will,” he said with more conviction than he’d felt in a month.

 

            “Finish your beer.  I’m ready for bed,” Cas said out of the dark next to him.  Dean did as he was told and let Cas lead him back into the house.  Cas blew out all the candles save one of the pillars as Dean locked the doors and checked the windows.  They met back up at the bottom of the stairs and Cas took Dean’s hand again, a shy smile on his face, and led him upstairs.  Cas placed the candle on the nightstand furthest from the door in the master bedroom and flipped the covers down the bed.  Dean walked up to the opposite side, suddenly nervous.

 

            “Cas, we don’t have to share, if you don’t want,” Dean rubbed the back of his neck and kept his eyes on the bed, “I can go sleep in one of the other rooms.”

 

            Cas blew out the candle and plunged the room into darkness.  Dean’s eyes adjusted while he listened to the rustling of clothing being shed.  He swallowed roughly and thought, fuck it, if Cas wanted to continue being near him, he was game.  Dean wasn’t above some naked cuddling with a practical stranger at this point.  Dean dropped his clothes next to the bed and climbed in, pulling the covers over both of them.  He could just make out Cas’ outline in the weak moonlight that filtered through the shear curtains.  They lie facing each other, and Dean closed his eyes, enjoying the way Cas’ breath blew across his face.

 

            “Cas?” Dean whispered.

 

            “Yes, Dean?”

 

            “Can I touch you?”

 

            “Only if I can touch you.”

 

            Dean reached out with his left hand slowly and gently stroked down Cas’ arm, from shoulder to elbow.  Cas’ hand landed softly on Dean’s jaw, his thumb brushing back and forth under his eye.  Dean scooted a little closer, reaching around to feel the muscles of Cas’ back.  They spent eons exploring each other’s bodies, an eternity of innocent touches, pointedly avoiding the inevitable.  Dean’s breathing was becoming faster and shallower all the while until Cas brushed his knuckles gently along the underside of his shaft.  Dean held his breath.  Cas’ long fingers wrapped around him loosely and Dean’s breath left him in a rush.  He whimpered as Cas stroked him from root to tip, thumbing the bead of precum and smearing it around the head.  Dean finally caught up and wrapped his own hand around Cas’ hot cock where it twitched into the sheet between them.  A breathy sigh pushed out of Cas’ mouth and Dean just wanted to kiss those wide lips more than anything at that moment.

 

            “Can I kiss you?” Cas whispered.

 

            “Oh God,” Dean sighed, “Fuck, yeah…please, Cas, I-“  Cas’ soft lips brushed against his and Dean moaned.  Not even any tongue yet and he was ready to blow.  If he didn’t think Cas was having the same problem, he’d have been embarrassed.

 

            Cas’ hand worked his cock in long, firm strokes while his tongue plied Dean’s mouth in a matching rhythm, totally controlled and completely merciless.  Dean tried his best to match his strokes with Cas’, but he was quickly losing the plot.  The only sounds in the room, Hell, in the _world_ , were the slick slide of flesh on flesh and Dean’s whimpering whines being swallowed by Cas’ perfect mouth.  Cas started fucking Dean’s fist in jerking, erratic thrusts and Dean lost his mind, grabbing the back of Cas’ neck with his free hand and crushing their mouths together, keening into the kiss and pistoning in and out of Cas’ hand to make him go faster.

 

            Cas broke away to pant into Dean’s neck, “Fuck…Dean…gonna…fuck…oh God…please…please…Dean… _Dean_ … _fuck_!” Cas’ cock swelled in Dean’s hand and then he was spilling into the humid inches between them.  Dean grunted one final time and bit into Cas’ shoulder as his orgasm wiped out all coherent thought, rutting into Cas’ wet dick as it softened and clasping Cas to his chest.  The men clung to each other as they floated down from their highs, their breathing evening out in tandem.

 

            “Sorry,” Dean muttered, releasing his grip on Cas’ hair and smoothing his fingers over the spot he’d bitten.

 

            “S’okay, doesn’t hurt,” Cas smiled into Dean’s sweaty neck, “Kinda liked it, actually.”

 

            “Pervert,” Dean laughed lightly.  Cas chuckled.

 

            “I’ve wanted to do that since the moment I saw you,” Cas sighed, flopping back on the bed and reaching over the side for his t shirt.

 

            “Yeah? Wish I could say the same,” Dean smiled as Cas halted in his clean up to smack Dean on the shoulder.

 

            “Well, I thought you were the most beautiful person I’d ever laid eyes on,” Cas pouted.

 

            “I thought you were a crazy, dirty hippy.”

 

            “Asshole.”

 

            “Yeah, but I can cook.”

 

            “That you can.  Maybe I’ll keep you for a while, then,” Cas curled up in Dean’s arms and nestled his ass against Dean’s soft dick.  “Go to sleep.  We’ll have to make an early start tomorrow if we want to make it to town before it gets too hot.”

 

            Dean lifted his head, “You…want to come with me?” he asked in a small voice.

 

            “Well, yes,” Cas answered, like it was a given.

 

            “To California?”

 

            “Yes, Dean.”

 

            “But…why?” Cas stiffened in his arms, “I mean, it’s gonna be rough and-and dangerous…and I-we might not make it.  It might be Hell.  Are you sure?”

 

            Cas was quiet for long enough that Dean was scared he might have talked himself out of…whatever this was with Cas, but finally, he spoke quietly, “I think Hell was what we were in before we found each other.  This will be more like Purgatory.  But, in the meantime, we’ll have each other and at the end, we’ll find Sam.  So, yes, I’m sure.”

 

            Dean sighed and slumped back down onto the pillow, tugging Cas in even tighter to his chest.  “Thank you,” he whispered.  Cas’ only response was to kiss the back of Dean’s hand.

 

            As Dean lie behind Cas, listening to the other man’s breathing slow and deepen as he fell asleep, he thought about what Cas had said.  The bitter edge he’d felt slowly inching its way into his mind was gone.  The gnawing despair he’d been battling for weeks was gone.  He’d been nearing hopelessness when Cas came along and now, he wasn’t.  Cas was an angel and he’d rescued Dean from Hell.  He’d be damned if he was gonna let this strange, awkward, incredible man out of his sight any time soon.

**Author's Note:**

> 'Noooooo! Clitler! You evil bitch! Give me more!'
> 
>  
> 
> Kudos and ye shall receive....
> 
>  
> 
> Also, if anyone finds something in the story that isn't tagged but should be, please let me know.
> 
> Always unbeta'd, all mistakes are mine.


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